


The Wedding of Lethbridge-Stewart

by JaneTurenne



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, he loves them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a man who lives out of order, pre-wedding jitters come post-vows, and the best way to beat them is to multiply them.  Fortunately, however, the Doctor is a Time Lord with very good friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wedding of Lethbridge-Stewart

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to tardiscrash!

“Brigadier!”

The Brigadier’s moustache twitches. “I’m sure you think you’re doing a kind thing, Doctor, showing up like this, but frankly, getting used to one of your changes of face is difficult enough at the best of times. Two hours after I’ve signed the papers to become someone’s ex-husband is not, in my personal opinion, the best of times.”

“Oh, none of that now! It’s perfect timing. Where’s that good old British spine? Cheer up, chin up, buck up and stand up, no time to waste! I’ve got _just_ the thing for you, my old friend. Hurry now, into the TARDIS, Registrar’s office on Medulin VII closes at four and the old girl doesn’t like arriving before six unless she’s taking off after eleven-thirty or on an odd-numbered day.”

Quite against his own inclination (and his better judgment), the Brigadier finds himself pulled through the blue doors and into the Doctor’s infernal machine. “You’ve redecorated, Doctor,” he says, staring around him at a wilderness of copper and reflected light. He has to shout to be heard over the screeching of engines. “I don’t...”

“No time for that now!” The Doctor grabs the Brigadier by the arm and tugs him straight back out the door again. The Brig stifles a gasp. The sky is purple, the ground is rust-orange, the buildings white, and the people violently green.

“Doctor,” he growls, “where _have_ you taken me this time?”

“Follow me!” The Doctor calls over his shoulder, and ploughs headlong into the throng. The Brigadier has no choice but to shove through after him, apologizing as quickly as he can to the aliens he elbows out of the way and hoping they all have the decency to understand English.

“Over here, Brigadier!” The Doctor stands on the steps of an enormous, imposing-looking building, leaping up and down, waving his arms and grinning widely. The moment the Brig is within reach, the Doctor has grabbed his arms again, and towed him inside.

“Erulin, you big green softie, how long has it been? How’re the nestlings getting along?” the Doctor says. He’s addressing an alien on the other side of the hall, a very tall, very large, very green being covered in dangerous-looking foot-long spines and possessed of even bigger teeth. The Brigadier instinctively reaches for his holster, only to find it empty. He looks over just in time to see the Doctor slip the Brig’s own revolver into his pocket. “None of that, now,” says the Doctor to the Brig, and then he turns back to the alien--Erulin, the Brig assumes. “We’re ready now, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says.

“You honor us, my Lord Doctor,” says the alien. Its voice is soft and bubbling, almost musical, completely at odds with its appearance.

“Not at all, not at all. Does he go first, or shall I?”

“Whichever you prefer, my Lord.”

“Right, then.” The Doctor grins brightly at the Brigadier. “I, the Doctor, do hereby vow: to dance with no other partner at the annual Festival of the Harvest, to save you the best seat for all meteor showers and firework displays, and to protect your hatchlings for all time from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.”

The Brigadier blinks. “Do you expect me to thank you, Doctor?” he asks, after a moment.

“I certainly don’t think that would be _entirely_ out of line--you should see those meteor showers--but this is your turn.”

“My turn to what?”

“Just read the words on the screen.”

“What screen?”

“Ah.” The Doctor stomps on a red button in the middle of the floor, and a stone podium springs up to the Brigadier’s right. On the surface of the podium is a glowing blue screen. “ _That_ screen.”

“There are no words there, Doctor, only scratches.”

“ _Concentrate_ , Brigadier.”

The scratches shift and swirl, and suddenly the writing is perfectly clear. “I, Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, do hereby vow: never to devour your exoskeleton as you sleep, to share with you every drink from the Well of Forgotten Sorrows, and to conceal your hatchlings for all of time from the murderous glance of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.”

“Brilliant!” beams the Doctor.

“You may now kiss the groom,” says Erulin, in a contented burble.

“Groom?” asks the Brigadier, and then, with dawning horror, “ _Kiss_?”

The instinct to dodge kicks in a moment too late. The Doctor aims straight for the lips. It is messy, slimy, and extremely undignified; the only mercy is that it doesn’t last long. The Doctor leans back and smiles beatifically. The Brigadier stands staring, wide-eyed, shaking.

It is the responsibility of the proper British soldier, the Brigadier has always felt, to have to hand a proper response for any and every situation. This isn’t the first time in his life he’s found himself facing peril that he could never have dreamed of, and he flatters himself he has always risen to the occasion. Only one action suggests itself at this particular moment, and fortunately, it promises to be deeply satisfying. Tightening his fingers, the Brigadier launches himself forward, and lands one of his very best punches to the Doctor’s jaw.

“Oi!” calls the Doctor, from the floor. “You might at least let me explain first.”

“Doctor,” says the Brigadier, gritting his teeth, “did you or did you not just trick me into marrying you in some fantastic alien ritual?”

“I wouldn’t say _trick_ ,” says the Doctor, “nor _fantastic_ , to be perfectly honest. No offense, Erulin, but I have seen better. In the past few hours.”

The alien shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“In that case,” says the Brig, “I think I understood well enough for that to be perfectly justified.”

“But Brigadier, getting married is what I _do_ these days. Getting married, if I do say so myself, is _cool_. In fact, I’m off to marry Sarah Jane now, would you like to come? You could be my best man this time. I’ve never married someone with my husband as my best man before.”

The Brigadier opens his mouth. He closes it again. And then he sits down beside the Doctor on the flagstone floor. “I give up,” he says. “You’ve done it at last, Doctor. I thought I would never be compelled to surrender, but I suppose if it was anyone, it was always going to be you.”

“Now that’s the sort of romantic talk I expect from a bridegroom,” says the Doctor, contentedly. He lays down his head on the Brigadier’s shoulder. The Brig stands up, hastily, and the Doctor leaps up beside him.

“I’m going back to your TARDIS now, Doctor,” says the Brigadier, still in a daze. “Perhaps you’ll explain to me what this is all about. Or perhaps there’s enough brandy on-board to convince me that this was all a very disturbing dream. Personally, I’m rather hoping for the latter.”

“Of course I’ll tell you!” says the Doctor, bounding along beside the Brigadier as they head back towards the TARDIS. “Goodbye, Erulin, thanks a million! And congratulate me, Brigadier, I got married today.”

“As I’ve just told you, Doctor, I’m hoping to forget that.”

“No, no, not then. Well, yes, then, but before then. To a woman called River. You’d like her, I think. Well, maybe. She’s a criminal, I suppose, but on the other hand she shoots things a lot, so you’d bond there.”

“I’m sure,” says the Brig.

“And, well, she’s...I mean, she’s fantastic, lovely, of course she is! Hair like...like _hair_ , and she kisses _really_ well when she’s not trying to poison me, and it’s not that I didn’t... Well, I mean, I _like_ her, she’s a very nice girl, and from a really _excellent_ family, but...”

The Doctor trails off, shoving his hands in his pockets. For a moment, the Brigadier simply enjoys the quiet. But the Doctor looks so hangdog that the Brigadier sighs, gives in and asks, “But?”

The Doctor unlocks the door of his TARDIS and they both step inside. “I didn’t really have a choice about it,” says the Doctor.

The Brigadier raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t have a choice?” he asks. “Doctor, you didn’t...”

The Doctor looks at him. “I didn’t?”

“You aren’t...”

The Doctor stares, uncomprehending. “Aren’t I?”

“You and your new wife aren’t already expecting?”

“Ohhhhh,” says the Doctor, with a knowing nod. “No, we don’t expect much. Mostly, we just know things already. Usually one of us has lived through a lot more of our life than the other, you see.”

The Brigadier knows the Doctor well enough that he’s _fairly_ certain that means the Earth isn’t about to be overrun by the miniature offspring of the Doctor and his gun-toting bride. The Brigadier breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “But you feel as though you didn’t have a choice?” he prompts, settling himself onto a seat to one side of the console as the Doctor wanders around the TARDIS, absently flicking switches to no noticeable effect.

“She’s a wonderful person,” says the Doctor. “It’s just, I’ve known so _many_ wonderful people. But she wouldn’t let me save the world, Brigadier. She was standing there, and she wouldn’t let me save the world, and it seemed like the only way, and to tell the truth she kisses really well even when she _is_ trying to poison me, so thought, well, worse things. And then she shot me and burned me alive...”

“ _What_?”

“Which was brilliant, all to plan, but I was sitting in the TARDIS, in an incinerated giant robot that wasn’t actually giant, and I thought, it really isn’t fair, is it? I mean, of course River is my best friend, but it isn’t as though she’s my _only_ best friend, is she? Just because she’s the only one mad enough to hold all of time and space to ransom to get me down the aisle doesn’t mean she’s the only one who deserves it. And I was... I happened to have you on the brain, Brigadier, so I thought, ‘ _There’s_ a place to start.’ You should be honored, you know.”

“You’ll have to give me a moment, Doctor,” says the Brigadier. “It’s been some time since I had to attempt to comprehend the workings of your brain. You decided it wasn’t fair not to marry me because I happen to be one of your friends?”

“One of my _best_ friends, Brigadier,” the Doctor says, smiling, and suddenly looking much older than his own face.

The Brigadier sits quietly, and wonders how he can possibly consider that perfectly comprehensible logic. He tries for several moments to find a flaw in it, and finally gives up, and sighs. “You couldn’t at least have chosen a planet where the marriage ceremony didn’t involve kissing, Doctor?”

“They all end with a kiss.”

“What, _all_ of them?” the Brigadier asks. “Every single marriage ceremony through _all_ of time and space?”

“I’m afraid so,” says the Doctor. “My fault. I took Charley to a wedding in the Melivari sector that ended with the brides touching fingertips, and she told me it was the most unromantic rubbish she’d ever seen, and that it was our responsibility to do something about it. A week later, there was a kissing clause written into the bonding ceremonies of every culture in history--including the ones that don’t have lips, which has caused a certain degree of bother. Talking of Charley, do you think I should go marry her first? I had thought Sarah next because the second-to-last time I saw her she happened to have a wedding dress on, but then again the _last_ time I saw Sarah she had Jo with her, and I knew Jo first, so perhaps it ought to be Jo next. Though I knew the Chestertons even before you, Brigadier--would they both marry me, do you think? And I suppose I am awfully overdue for good old Bess One. And Marilyn. Or I could go in reverse order. Start with the Ponds. Except...oh. Is it unethical to marry your parents-in-law?”

“Bigamy in general isn’t the done thing as far as I’m concerned, Doctor.”

“But it wouldn’t be bigamy, it would be trigamy. No! Quadrogamy, wouldn’t it, I’m already married twice. And of course I have to find time for the TARDIS, I am looking forward to that one. She’s already printed me out a list of a dozen civilizations where it’s acceptable for a Time Lord to marry a multi-dimensional box, cross-indexed by charm, scenic-ness and the likelihood of monster attack while we’re there. Very thoughtful of her.”

There is one point the Brigadier considers it imperative to set straight as quickly as possible. “You most certainly are not married twice, Doctor. Under British law, a marriage under false pretenses doesn’t stand. No matter where in this universe you may drag me, _I_ am a Scotsman.”

The Doctor blinks, childishly surprised. “But don’t you want to be married to me, Brigadier?”

“ _No_.”

“Oh.” The Doctor considers. “Are you sure?”

“Completely sure, Doctor.”

“Double sure?”

“Triply so.”

“Ah.”

“And furthermore, Doctor, you are to refrain from marrying Miss Pollard, Miss Smith and Mrs. Jones.”

“Now see here, Brigadier...”

“They’re fine women, all of them, and they deserve better than marrying a man who is married to someone else already. I assume you weren’t planning on telling them about that part first?”

“Of course I...well, that is... If they happened to ask? I’d certainly have told them _after_.”

“How gallant of you,” says the Brig, drily.

“But Brigadier...”

“No, Doctor.”

“What if _I_ don’t do it,” says the Doctor, coaxingly. “I’m sure I could get myself to do it for me. If I just popped back to 1979 Paris and whispered a word or two in my own ear, I’m sure I’d...”

“No, Doctor.”

“Scotland, 1746?”

“ _No_ , Doctor.”

“At _least_ let me stop by and marry Jack. _He_ won’t care about River. Honestly, knowing Jack, two Time Lords for the price of one will be considered a plus.”

“The point isn’t what he’ll think about it, Doctor, the point is what your _wife_ will think about it.”

The Doctor stops mid-pace. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

The Doctor stands, thinks, and then wanders over to the Brigadier, slumping into the seat beside him. “I don’t know what I’ve got myself into this time, Brigadier,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet.

“This River of yours, with the itchy trigger finger and the impeccable ancestry,” says the Brigadier. “Do you love her, Doctor?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer right away. “Yes,” he says, finally. “But I’ve loved so many people. I’ve loved other people the same way at different times, and different people other ways now, and why should it be her? The others aren’t less important to who I have been and who I am. They haven’t ever been less important than she is to me.”

“Did anybody say that they were?”

The Doctor considers. “No,” he says slowly, “but...”

“I got divorced this afternoon, Doctor,” says the Brig. “Do you know why?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“There are people who believe that marriage means giving something up,” says the Brigadier. “That it means giving away everything you were before you were married. Everything else you did and cared about, everything else that was a part of your life. Fiona was like that.” The Brig shakes his head. “I can’t understand that outlook, personally. Being married is--should be--a gain, for everyone involved. I don’t mean that marriage shouldn’t involve effort, and sacrifice. Everything we care about involves effort and sacrifice. That’s what caring _means_ : being willing to give.

“But knowing that someone will always be waiting for us, there when we need them, that should only make us _more_ able to give to others, not only to our spouses. Having a wife, or a husband, to fall back on in our darkest hour, that should mean that we’re less afraid to face those darkest hours, to protect others who need our help. Getting married doesn’t make you less able to care for the rest of the universe, Doctor; it does precisely the opposite. And it isn’t a slight to those you’ve loved before, or their memories. It’s a compliment. You’ve needed those you’ve loved in the past to make you ready for this commitment, to teach you to trust enough to make that kind of promise. They are a part of your marriage, because they’re a part of the man you are. So you don’t need to go around marrying every friend you’ve ever had just to prove that they’re important to you, Doctor. You’ve proved it already.”

The Doctor swallows, and straightens his bow tie. “I miss you, Alistair,” he says, finally, and looks away, too late to stop the Brigadier seeing how bright his eyes have grown.

“Doctor?” he asks.

The Doctor clears his throat. “Right,” he says, and springs up. “We’re both gentlemen of the universe, aren’t we, Brigadier?”

“On your better days, Doctor.”

The Doctor grins, and makes a not-at-all-subtle backhand swipe at his eyes. “Well then,” he says, “I think we can both agree that my best method of expressing the depth of my gratitude for your sage advice would be to never mention any of this again.”

“I quite agree.”

“Excellent. I’ll take you home now, then. Unless there was somewhere else you wanted to go?”

“It isn’t often I find myself wishing to be anywhere as much as home.”

“Proving once again that it’s a miracle two men as opposite as we are ever learned to tolerate each other,” the Doctor laughs, as he dances around the console and the TARDIS shudders into motion.

“Nonsense, Doctor. The fact that you carry your home around with you doesn’t make it any less important to you, and the fact that you aren’t always on Earth doesn’t make _that_ any less important to you either.”

“That’s quite enough, Brigadier,” says the Doctor. “There’s only so much of you knowing a Time Lord better than he does himself that I can take in one day.”

“Forgive me, Doctor,” says the Brigadier, as the doors swing open, revealing his own study beyond. “I shall try to be stupider in future.”

“You do that,” says the Doctor, and smiles, rather stiffly. “Well, then. Out you get.”

“Will I be seeing you soon, Doctor?”

“One of me will always turn up sooner or later. Not sure about this self, though,” says the Doctor. “I’ve a wedding night to go and have, and knowing my blushing bride, that could take...oh, at least a century, I’d imagine.”

“Congratulations, then, Doctor. And good luck.”

“And you, my friend,” says the Doctor. “And Brigadier?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’ll find someone who believes the same things you do about marriage. Don’t go giving up hope.”

“Is that a prophecy, Doctor?”

The Doctor smiles, something wicked in the grin. “Spoilers,” he says, and laughs at his own incomprehensible joke. “Goodbye, Brigadier!”

The door closes before the Brigadier can return the farewell. “Goodbye, Doctor,” he says, anyway, and listens to the shriek of the departing TARDIS as his old friend disappears into the stars.


End file.
